


For It is the Soldier

by thebiwholived



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Minor Self Harm, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Substance Abuse, wow tagging for harry's post-dh issues is really depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebiwholived/pseuds/thebiwholived
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's struggle with sleep reaches a new low.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For It is the Soldier

Ginny knocks on Ron’s bedroom door and, met with nothing but silence, pushes it open. She slips quietly through and moves to close the door behind her but is brought up short by the sight of Harry standing in the middle of the room, silent and looking slightly lost.

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry. I thought you were still sleeping....”

Harry’s head turns toward her, but his eyes are...odd. Glazed. His brow furrows just a bit.

“Mum sent me up to see if you wanted something to eat,” Ginny explains. “She’s made tea.” Harry doesn’t say anything, only looks more confused. He reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, twisting it loosely in his hands. Ginny steps closer to him, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach.

“Harry?” she says softly. “Are you alright?”

She’s standing right in front of him now, and his eyes find her face but she can tell he’s not really seeing her. Then he speaks and the pit of unease turns to something more like terror.

“I think Remus is dead.”

Ginny stares at him, taking in his pallid color, the thin sheen of sweat near his temple.

“What?” she asks.

“Remus....” Harry says again, his attention wandering vaguely to Ron’s old Chudley Cannons poster. “I think he died.”

Ginny is caught between wanting to say ‘yes, he did’ and ‘no, he didn’t, everything’s fine, we’re all going to be okay’ so instead she calls for her mother, and she’s surprised that her voice doesn’t shake.

Molly Weasley appears in the doorway a moment later, her wand poking out of an apron pocket. “What is it, what’s the matter?” Ginny doesn’t quite know what to say, how to explain, but Molly is looking at Harry now, her face clouding with concern, and Ginny knows she sees it too, how _wrong_ he is.

Her mother crosses the room and places a hand on Harry’s forehead, but he shies away and backs up a step, his gaze turning from the wall to stare dazedly past the women in front of him. His fingers twist more tightly in his t-shirt, and he makes the tiniest of grunts in the back of his throat, a thin, strangled little sound.

“Mum, what’s wrong with him?” Ginny begs, and this time she can hear a tremor.

Molly shakes her head and approaches Harry again, more cautiously this time. “Harry?” she coaxes, and his eyes attempt to focus on her face just like they had Ginny’s. “Harry, dear, it’s alright....” She reaches out a hand and it hovers over his arm, not quite touching. “Why don’t we get you back into bed, you’ll feel much better, that’s right – ” Her hand settles lightly onto his shoulder and she gently turns him toward his camp bed. “You’re alright....”

Harry complies without a word, and Ginny moves to pull the covers back, her nerves jangling. _He just needs sleep._ They all know that by now. The circles under Harry’s eyes have only grown darker in the weeks since the battle, and more than once they’ve heard muffled screams during the night.

Molly guides Harry by the shoulders until he’s sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. His hands abandon the hem of his shirt and start twisting around each other instead. “It’s not alright,” he whispers, and Ginny can’t stand it because this isn’t her Harry. Her Harry doesn’t say these things, he hides them away and says he’s fine _(don’t worry about me)_ and she _hates_ that he does that but she’s learned to read the signs, learned to read _him_ , and she doesn’t know what’s happening, she doesn’t know how to help. “He’s...he’s not alright. Not-...not going to be okay....” Harry continues.

Molly looks as alarmed as Ginny feels. “ _Who_ , dear?”

Harry’s hands clench compulsively into fists. “Teddy,” he chokes, still staring at nothing.

Ginny stares because that wasn’t what she was expecting but then jumps as her mother lurches forward, wand clattering to the floor, to tear Harry’s hands away from each other. Ginny’s confused until she sees the beads of blood oozing up from where Harry’d been digging his fingernails into his own skin.

Molly gives an exasperated little sigh and bends down to retrieve her wand, her hand nudging a glass bottle that’s managed to roll under the nightstand. Diverted, Molly picks up the bottle and straightens up, turning it over in her hands. “Oh Harry....” she whispers sadly.

Ginny leans over to read the label and immediately understands. It’s Dreamless Sleep, but it’s a fairly large bottle. And it’s almost empty.

“He must have been taking it for days,” Ginny says, looking back up at Harry in disbelief. One of his hands has curled into itself again and she quickly sits down next to him, gently prying his fingers open and slipping her hand into his.

“But I don’t understand, where did he get it?” Molly wonders, bending down to peer worriedly into Harry’s eyes.

“Probably nicked it from the Ministry when Kingsley wasn’t looking,” Ginny answers, but right now she couldn’t care less where he found it. Dreamless Sleep is a helpful little potion, but it can be dangerous – she knows, she’s heard of the results, growing up with wizards. Humans have to dream to survive. Without dreams, you can’t function; you get irritable, then you hallucinate, then you-

Ginny smothers that thought forcefully.

“Teddy,” Harry insists again, shifting his gaze to his knees. “I can’t...he doesn’t...his parents are _gone_ , and he won’t- won’t ever know who they _were_....” There’s a terrible, secret knowing in his voice that _twists_ something inside of Ginny and a tiny part of her knows that Harry would be mortified to know they’re seeing him like this, but a much bigger part has the sudden urge to wrap Harry in her arms and never leave him alone again.

She squeezes his hand tighter.

“How’s he ever going to be happy?” Harry continues as Molly checks his pulse, feels his throat, brushes the hair away from his eyes, testing his forehead again. “He can’t- can’t be,” Harry says miserably, his eyes drifting to the floor. “Can’t be happy if you haven’t got a family....”

Molly shushes him, a hand on his cheek, and gently kisses the top of his head. She waves her wand in a practiced motion over his hands, neatly knitting the torn skin back together. Straightening up, she turns to Ginny. “Stay with him,” she says thickly. “I’m going to Floo St. Mungo’s – we’ll need to have a Healer look him over, I don’t know how much he’s taken....”

Molly turns her back, wiping her eyes, and bustles from the room.

Ginny looks up at Harry’s face and realizes with a funny jolt that this is the first time they’ve really been alone since everyone returned to the Burrow.

It’s not exactly how she’d pictured this going.

Harry’s still murmuring, almost inaudibly now, but Ginny catches something that sounds like ‘family’ again and suddenly she’s _angry_. At Harry, at Voldemort, at the fucking _Dursleys_ , she doesn’t know but she needs Harry to understand and she grasps his chin, forcing him to look at her.

“Teddy has a family,” she insists fiercely. “He’s got you and Andromeda. And he _is_ going to be happy, what kid wouldn’t be, with you looking after them?” Ginny isn’t sure but she thinks Harry’s eyes clear, just a little. She releases him and he doesn’t look away. “And you’ve a family too,” she says. “Me and Ron and Hermione, Mum and Dad, all of us....you’re not in this by yourself, Harry.”

Harry manages to hold her gaze for another second before he drifts away, lost inside his head again. Ginny’s shoulders sag and she looks away. “You’ll get it eventually,” she sighs.

Deciding she might as well try to get him to sleep if she can, Ginny stands, one hand still in his, and pushes against his shoulder, maneuvering him until he’s settled back against the pillows. She carefully removes his glasses, placing them on the nightstand next to his wand, and looks at him lying there, unmoving, those beautiful green eyes open and blank. A lump forms in her throat and she turns away from the sight, intending to settle herself on Ron’s empty bed to wait for the Healer, but Harry’s fingers tighten suddenly around hers, halting her, and she turns back.

Harry’s looking directly at her, his face clouded with distress. His lips part, like he wants to say something but can’t remember the words. “Will...will you stay with me?” he manages in a small voice, the high points of his cheeks coloring ever-so-slightly ( _even drugged and disoriented he is ashamed to ask for this_ ) and Ginny almost can’t breathe now past the pressure in her throat.

She nods, eyes burning, and slowly sinks onto the tiny bed, settling on her side next to Harry, whose eyes are tracking her every move. Ginny tucks her bare feet up under the covers that lie rumpled at the bottom of the bed and gazes back at this boy she still can’t quite believe is alive and here and hers, her thumb moving in slow circles over the back of his hand.

Harry’s eyes slip closed at the soothing motion, his body relaxing almost imperceptibly.

“Thank you,” he murmurs sleepily, and Ginny has the sudden urge to kiss him. She reckons that might be taking advantage a bit, though, in his current state, so instead she scoots closer until they’re touching, Harry’s overheated skin warming her even through their clothes, and curls an arm around his back, tucking his head under her chin.

“Any time,” she whispers into his hair, and as his breathing evens out and his body melts further into hers, she can’t stop herself thinking that the scolding she’s sure to get from Mum when she finds them like this is damn well worth the risk.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a quote by Douglas MacArthur: "The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war."


End file.
